energyflow
by Giratina
Summary: "For the rest of us, Reaping Day is nothing of particular note, once one wraps his head around the fact that two kids in the District are leaving and won't come back. Because they don't come back, ever. It's just not done." -Beetee Farwyre  ext. hiatus
1. Who cares?

Reaping Day is tomorrow.

That's what Alenine has been repeating constantly, excitedly, for the past week (the day changed, naturally, to reflect exactly when Reaping Day is supposed to be). Of course, for her it _is_ a momentous occasion – a day off from school! That hardly ever happens in District Three. Even admitting one day of free time for its youth is deeply traumatic for those who run the central government of the District. (Or pretend to, anyhow.) For the rest of us, Reaping Day is nothing of particular note, once one wraps his head around the fact that two kids in the District are leaving and won't come back. Because they don't come back, ever. It's just not done.

Of course, I couldn't blame Alenine for not knowing this. She's only a little girl, after all. The Reaping suddenly becomes a very delicate subject when young children are brought into play.

I'm probably going to be the one to tell her, when she's twelve years old, exactly what happens to the boys and girls brought up on the stage and hailed as heroes for about two seconds. I really don't want to tell her, to be the one to have to explain all the gory details to precious little Allie, but she'll be asking me.

But _that_, I remind myself as I get up, is all very much in the future. Right now my focus is expected to be on other things. The door to my bedroom swings open right on schedule, a little girl standing in the door. Like me, her hair is black and very thick, but it has been allowed to grow down quite a way and seems to frame her face. Quite unlike me, however, her eyes are bright blue, and there are no thick glasses to cover them from the outside world.

By the time I had finished this little mental recap on what Alenine looks like, she had already completely cleared the room and latched firmly to my waist.

"Hi there," I chuckle, resting a hand on her head. It isn't as if this is an unusual occurrence. "How was your day, Allie?"

"It was good!" she announces. "We did, uh. Computers and stuff!"

"Is that so? Well, welcome to District Three." I laugh at my own joke (in my defense, jokes coming out of me _are_ astronomically rare) before noticing the confused look on Alenine's face and realize that she doesn't get it. I sit down on the bed, and without needing to be invited, Allie bounces over, where I pick her up and deposit her firmly next to me. "Come on. Alenine. Has there been a day gone by when you _haven't_ used technology in school?" I ask in a patient voice, with a trace of good humor.

I think this is the tone everyone complains about when I start talking to them 'like a schoolteacher'. Fortunately, Alenine doesn't seem to mind.

She dangles her legs over the edge of the bed and frowns, deep in thought. "...I don't think so."

"So you can see why 'computers and stuff' is not a good description of your day." We both laugh at this one. "...Uh. Got any homework you need help with?"

Allie shakes her head. "Nuh-uh. Teacher says that we're not getting homework because _Reaping Day is tomorrow_!" She suddenly sits up straight, as if this is news to her, and then bounces slightly in her seat. Unable to join in the excitement of having a day off from school (I still fail to understand how this is such a momentous event, even through my critical social difficulties), allow her to see just how skewed her perception really is, or indeed make any sort of comment at all, I just kind of sit there with this awkward smile on my face until her latest energy rush dies down.

"Uh. You didn't see Mom or Dad, did you?"

"Daddy is downstairs!" she says brightly, happy to share knowledge with her elder brother. Especially knowledge which we both know is cause for alarm.

I nod thoughtfully. It's rare that either of my parents make any sort of appearance beyond six o'clock in the morning, and when they do, it usually means that something nasty has happened. I get up, and immediately Alenine wiggles off the bed to follow me down the hallway – and sure enough, once we enter the kitchen, there sits Father dearest, reading a stack of papers he looks entirely uninterested in. Immediately my mind jumps to several possible conclusions: a new edition of the worker's manual, possible blueprints, an unholy stack of eviction notices?

Then I get a little closer to him, and suddenly the stack looks all too familiar.

"You're, ah, looking over the Hunger insurance?"

He looks up quickly, as if having just noticed that either of us were there. This is probably exactly what happened. Like me, my father has a strange tendency to get himself entirely wrapped up in his work, even if it looks like he really couldn't care less... just don't expect him to pay attention to _you_. Because whoever _you_ are, there is nothing about _you_ that is more important than his current task.

Hunger insurance was a nice little project that had started in recent years, automatically sent out to each Three family unit who happened to have a child between the ages of twelve and eighteen. As the name suggests, it is meant to cater towards those who lose a child to the Hunger Games, a Capitol favorite. Needless to say, it is often used.

Of course, they send out advertisements every year, but don't take any new applications past midnight, Reaping Day. Everyone has to make money somehow, I guess. (Otherwise, no one would bother taking it unless they know for sure their child was picked and will die. Because they _will_ die.) I know immediately that this stack came on my behalf. "...Are you considering it?" I ask quietly.

"Considering it," he responds. "You're fifteen. The odds are stacking. Slowly."

I nod. Every year means one new entry into the unholy Reaping Ball. Mercifully, our family is one of the few that manage to escape the need for tesserae – which leaves those who aren't in such a position to keep on trying, keep on killing themselves, within the clutches of the Capitol or otherwise. All things considered, I'm probably not going to see myself on that slip... and I really do hope not. If there's anyone in District Three who's going to die in that arena, it's me.

Honestly. If someone has to die for District Three, it should at least be not a bespectacled, overweight teenage inventor-slash-loser.

Looking out a nearby window at the red-stained sky beyond, I notice the time. "Who's making dinner?" I ask as innocently as I can. Typically I'm the one responsible for food preparation for Alenine and myself, with these two picking up the leftovers whenever they get home. When one of them is actually present, however, it's very much a mixed bag.

"I'll handle this," he says.

Translation: takeout.

Figuring I'm not going to get anything better, I thank him for taking the load off my shoulders and turn to go back up to my room – but before I even reach the kitchen door, my father's voice calls out again.

"Hey, Beetee. You plan to actually _eat_ with us tonight?"

A knot promptly forms in my stomach. Every time he's home, he always asks this same question, and whatever answer I give it always makes me feel awful. "...No, I'm sorry," I respond, shifting my weight uncomfortably. "I, um. Have that project to do. You know. The... the thing. ...I told you about it, right?"

He looks up at me. "Nope."

"W-well," I stammer. "See... it's a, you know, um. Music box. I guess."

He raises an eyebrow. "Music box?"

"...Yeah."

"What makes you figure that a music box is worth spending another night cooped up in your bedroom when you could be downstairs with Alenine and I?"

"Yeah... um... I really wanted to get it finished."

My father gives off a loud, exasperated sigh, and the knot in my stomach gets even bigger. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. But eventually he gives in and says "Just go," which is better than I expected at any rate. Not wasting any further time, I quickly disappear around the door. I don't bother to mention that the song intended to play from the box is some hit single from a Capitol artist, and is now streaming from Alenine's room. I also don't bother to mention that her birthday is next week.

Because really, I'm the only one who remembers nowadays.

Once I've found myself back in my own room, far _far_ away from my father for the time being, I pull the necessary supplies out from the cabinet they've been hidden in. Even though it's entirely possible Alenine will just dismiss the box as some miscellaneous project I've got my mind set on, I would still rather play it safe. After all, this is a surprise. I pause to listen, making sure the radio is still on in her room, hopefully loud enough to muffle the considerably softer music box. Once that was secure, I tell it to play back what I have so far.

I didn't want it to simply play a file of the song; she could find that anywhere. Instead, the thing worked somewhat like a glorified xylophone with added musical accompaniment. Several nights of rigging had resulted in a vaguely synthesizer-and-bell-flavored instrumental version of the song (I don't dare to record myself singing, even if I've known since second grade how to make my voice sound exactly like the singer's). ...Well, almost instrumental, anyhow. This is intended to be the slower part of the song, not even forty seconds long, wherein the only input from our friend the Capitol pop idol is 'daaaaa da da daaaaa da da da daaaaaaaaa'. That's easy enough to replicate.

And yet, every time, at around twenty-six seconds through the clip, it would start to disintegrate. Beats would skip, the voice would corrupt, sudden loops and glitches of sounds that shouldn't be there... it's a very curious phenomenon, and I cannot figure for the life of me what's making it work that way. But I have a feeling that it will take a while to figure out, and no second can be wasted. Sorry, Dad, try again next year.

To be perfectly honest, I'm really not so much a fan of this song at all. The artist is apparently gathering praise from all Districts who bother, which is no small feat – but he's not particularly skilled at all. Stripped of the powers of auto-tune, I'm fairly sure that he would be no one at all. But the mind of a five-year-old works in strange and mysterious ways, and I'm not about to question it now.

The next time I look up, it's somewhere around two in the morning, and both Alenine and my parents are asleep. As far as they're concerned, so am I. Mumbling irritably, I carefully return the music box (no closer to completion) back into its hiding place, and began preparing to go to bed. Even by my standards, two AM was a significantly late hour. I sing praises to the Capitol that they decided to perform the Reapings one by one, going upwards from Twelve and moving later and later into the day. At least I'll get something that vaguely resembles sleep.

Quietly, somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember the expressions on the faces of the tributes who had been sent to the stage alongside our ever-present Capitol companion, Pixie Raiben. I've seen a few of them in person, standing in a variety of roped-off areas in front of the Justice Building. (In this District, Reaping Day attendance is mandatory for families with children within the reaping age; if ever the population grows too big to fit in the clearing and associated side streets, family members are dispatched.)

Their expressions always left a mark on me for being so... surprised. Rarely ever was there a look of panic or fury, just confusion. Were _they_ the ones who were supposed to be picked? Surely there was a problem in the Reaping Ball, it was really the person _next to them _instead? There seemed to be something about the mentality of District Three that immunized them or their children from being selected. 'No one I know has ever had a relative picked, or been picked themselves.' 'It's only two people, once a year.' 'The tributes will die anyway.' They really don't care. And when it's them, well, they need to care then, don't they?

My appointed mantra for District Three plays over and over in my mind.

_Who wins? Who dies? Who cares?_

* * *

><p><em>Hi guys, Gira again. You may know me. ;D<br>_

_So I know what you're thinking: "Har har, **someone** is mooching off of Volts!" This isn't true at all. This fic was probably a fair part of the reason I climbed into the Hunger Games section in the first place. Now, Volts is wonderful and hilarious and I love it, but I intend to take this fic in a very different direction... while still fangirling up the wazoo. _

_Also, yes, the title is uncapitalized._

_- Gira  
><em>


	2. Up to and including Reaping Day

_Whee, new chapter!_

_Okay. So I know the last one was kind of short. But if I had continued on with this chapter, it would have gotten... well, really long. XD Exciting things will happen soon, promise._

_- Gira  
><em>

* * *

><p>It is a natural law of the universe, listed alongside the principles of gravity and momentum, that most (if not all) human teenagers will stubbornly refuse to wake up before ten o'clock in the morning, with the possible exception of being faced by an oncoming nuclear catastrophe.<p>

I am not exempt from this law.

Nobody bothers to wake me. Even though both of my parents are now present and accounted for, there is a brief shining moment where I consider that they have actually come to understand that I need all the sleep I can get, thanks mostly to my unfortunate late-night schedule. Then I snap back to reality and decide that they just didn't care. Alenine, on the other hand, would of course not even have the notion pass her mind. She's probably too busy playing right now, or having some sort of parent-child bonding time.

Briefly I wonder if that's what I ought to be doing, but drop the idea very quickly afterward and attempt to fall back asleep. With this year's schedule, the District Three Reaping doesn't roll around until perhaps four in the afternoon, the order being randomized every year... but this year in an exact opposite of the District numbers, beginning with Twelve and ending with One. (They are performed every hour on the dot, for twelve consecutive hours, so that everyone joining us at home will have the opportunity to watch the full proceedings. It is generally agreed that only people from the Capitol and possibly Districts One and Two would even _want_ to do this.)

Eventually, however, the promise of food drives me out of bed. I take my glasses from their official position on the floor (it is a rare day indeed that I can fit them on my nightstand) and put them on, blinking a couple of times as everything comes into focus. Granted, these are heavy, unbalanced, and practically scream 'nerd', but they're the only pair I've actually got.

We're not _that _wealthy.

Once I've made my way downstairs, I discover the second critical dissonance error of the day: everyone is eating breakfast. _Together_. I honestly cannot remember the last time this has happened. No time this year, certainly, or the year before. The food is unimpressive; as the primary cook of the house, even I can tell that this was a rush job by a couple of people who have no idea what they were doing, but I don't complain. The same goes for when I glance over at the stovetop and notice that everything has already been dumped into the kitchen sink.

Forgot about me again, I guess.

Silently, I walk over to the refrigerator and pull it open, checking to see if there's at least anything I can use to make something for myself. Mercifully, there is – it won't be impressive, but food is food. I resist the urge to turn around and watch the expression on everyone else's face, figuring that the first word that comes out of their mouth will convey everything perfectly.

"Beetee, brush your hair."

It does.

"I will after I eat breakfast," I respond with the tone of someone all too used to this treatment, taking out the carton of eggs. As I expected, this satisfies her for the moment and everyone falls silent again, the only sounds being Alenine's eating and my preparation of breakfast. Though my mother does have a point about my hair – it's very thick, so it tangles easily, and thanks to my own decision to ignore it, grows closer to a feminine length every day – I really don't care right now.

I wonder what convinced them to eat at this hour; was everyone just sleepy, and had banded together somewhere around this time in a three-way attempt to magick food out of thin air? Were they trying to prepare something earlier and failing at it? (For the record, the idea that they were perhaps waiting for me never even crosses my mind.) Finally, however, I decide that whatever their reasoning was, I have no reason nor interest to learn it. The awkward silence continues, and eventually Alenine gets up and floats over to me.

"Good morning!" she announces.

"Good morning," I respond, attention mostly on the eggs.

"Do you want to play with me?" she asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Come on come on pleeease? Mommy and Daddy have work to do!"

"Sure." I glance at the clock. "I'll be up there in maybe... fifteen minutes?" That's enough to throw this down and run a brush through my hair, I guess. Because Allie's probably not going to let me go until we absolutely have to leave for the Reaping. Only briefly does my mind flicker to the music box. But I'll have time to do that later tonight.

I know the other two are staring at me, probably my father more so than my mother. Assuming he managed to remember that I have that box to complete, he'll be wondering why I can't take the time to sit down there and eat, but I _can_ use up the entirety of my day fooling around with Alenine. Mercifully, at this point I've finished making breakfast, and after collecting the proper utensils I head for the door.

"You're not eating in your room, are you?" asks my mother in a dangerous tone. She doesn't go for that sort of thing.

"No," I say in the same been-there-done-that drone. "Dining room."

"Why don't you eat in here?" my father adds. It isn't a question, but a command. "There's two empty seats at the table." No one has bothered to clean up after Alenine, which means there is in fact only _one _empty seat at the table, but I don't mention that. Instead I turn my head and shoot them both a look. Surely, between the two of them, they're smart enough to realize a stiflingly uncomfortable atmosphere when they see one? (Or perhaps it's just me, which is an equally likely explanation. It doesn't take much to make me want to duck out of the room and hide under something.)

"I'm sorry, but I'd really rather not." That's my only response as I grab up my plate of food and continue walking out of the room, proceeding into the hallway that serves as the main channel of transportation for our apartment.

"Now _come back here_, Beetee," spills the response from the kitchen. It doesn't sound like it's very happy, so after all of that fuss I simply stop in my tracks (classic Beetee behavior). It doesn't take very long for my father to appear in the doorway, and we stare at one another from across the hall. A very good opportunity to use one of my few talents: deadpan expressions. I've been told that something about doing them with these heavy face-obscuring glasses makes them more imposing or something.

A spark of surprise crosses his face (apparently he wasn't aware that I could make any facial expression past mild terror), but he's soon back on track.

"Look," he says. "I don't know if this is some teenager phase you're going through right now or something, but I speak for both your mother and I when I say that you're beginning to go too far. We are your _parents_..." (I resist the urge to pop in at this point and say, "Really? I hadn't noticed.") "...and we expect you to be showing us the proper respect, especially when it's absent for us but suddenly all there for a _little girl_..." I stop listening there.

Oh no. Oh _no_ he didn't.

I begin to zone out from his little ultimatum, my mind flitting off in new and utterly furious directions, and by the time he stops I realize he's staring straight at me. I then realize that I have a really nasty expression on my face. By the time I've returned to my previous expression, he's started up again, but as it turns out he only has a few words for me this time. "I don't know why you seem so intent on making us miserable, but just know: we sure as _hell_ did not raise our son that way!"

"You're quite right," I respond. "You didn't raise him at all."

And I walk up to my room. I think I'm going to eat up there today.

xx

Somewhere during the next couple of hours, I drop in on Alenine to make sure that she's doing alright. (Sometimes, I find, she needs help and doesn't seem to tell anyone. Seems kind of counterproductive to me, but oh well.) When I come in, the television is muttering in the background and she is more interested in the dolls she's now playing with.

"Hi there," I say, sitting down next to her. "Doing okay in here?"

"Uh-huh." She nods. "Lili is almost at the part where she tells Phoebe that her best friend is secretly a big purple alien!"

I decide not to ask. "Sounds interesting." I watch her play for a little while longer (she soon seems to forget I'm even here and makes the formal premiere of Lili's big purple alien friend interrupted by a talking lion), and so instead my attention turns to the television. Just like every other station in Panem, they're right now talking about the Reaping tomorrow, with assorted topics such as possible arena designs, Gamemaker selections, and the classic Career pack. All broadcast live from the Capitol.

How... exciting.

"What are they talking about?"

"Huh?"

The sudden intervention of Alenine into my thoughts causes me to deliver one of my classic catchphrases (right up there with "Um" and "Well..."). Fortunately, Alenine repeats her question for me.

"What are they talking about?"

"Oh." I blink. They're discussing the Hunger Games, obviously, but I don't know how much she knows about that topic. It's been a long time since I was five years old, and I can't exactly remember the exact breadth of my knowledge of the Games back then. "Um, they're talking about the Games..." I listen for a moment – ah, yes. I remember hearing about this last year. But Alenine is talking again.

"What about them?"

"Well... you know how one boy and one girl from each District is supposed to be picked?"

"Yeah..."

"Um," I say to buy time, wondering how to proceed. "Well. In some other Districts, well, they're treated differently than here. Because, you know, in District Three no one wants to be picked. But in other Districts, like One and Two, people actually offer themselves to be put up, in place of someone else."

"Oh. Well... that's nice!" She smiles. "If it's bad, then people doing it to save the others are nice people."

_No, actually they're trained killers, _I think before I can stop myself. But of course I don't say this to her. "...Right. Well, um... those people are called volunteers. And last year in one of the Districts, Two, a very big fight broke out between a lot of people who wanted to volunteer." Her face was solemn now, so I continue on before she can repeat it. I hate having to tell her these things. "...So, um, this year, they've put in a rule that says that people from that District can't volunteer. Whoever is chosen is chosen, no exceptions."

There's a long pause. And then:

"So... no one can save other people anymore?"

...E-erk. That's not a good expression on her face. "Well, um, yes, but... you see, they only stopped it when people started getting hurt. So it did more good than it did bad. Stopped the fights."

This seems to mollify her, and she begins to calm down. Slightly. "...Oh," she says weakly, scooting closer to me. "That doesn't sound good for anybody..."

"No," I respond, putting an arm around her. "It's really not."

xx

After that brief interlude, the rest of the day was spent mostly in my room, with semi-consistent checkups on Alenine. No one had bothered to come into my room, and I have a feeling that the plate and fork are going to become a permanent fixture, at least until I bother to clean this place up. In the meantime, I've managed to recover a few scraps of the song on the box, but it's still malfunctioning, and most of what I fixed is probably more from blindly poking at things than any real understanding of what was going on.

Someone must have opened my door without my notice, because a couple of hours in to my investigation there's Alenine, hovering right next to me.

I swear my heart stopped for a second there. Fortunately, I wasn't actively playing the song at the time (or at least, I think I wasn't), but what if she had heard it before? Then everything I've been working at would be ruined...

"Big brother!" she chimes. "Mommy says to get dressed for the Reaping!"

"I _am_ dressed," I mutter to no one in particular. Because, well, I am. It may not be terribly impressive, with a random button-down shirt and black pants. But it isn't as if I'm still hanging around in my pajamas or something. Of course it wouldn't be good enough for them (I can never figure out what is), and of course they wouldn't bother to come up here and check. The only thing I can do is hope the day will end soon, and be glad that it's only one day of the year that they have to stay here with us. One day of the year. One day of the year...

Alenine is tugging at my arm now. "C'mon!" she says. I can hear my father calling us from down the hallway, and figuring it's time to give it up, I do finally stand up and put away the music box. I can do more work on it tomorrow – it's anyone's guess whether I'll get an opportunity later tonight. Once standing, I make a movement to pick up Alenine, briefly reconsider it, and do it anyway. Let them say what they like.

Am I just bitter with teenage angst? Almost certainly. But everyone is at one point in their lives – and having _those two _here for even a single day is now enough to send me reeling. (I realize at that moment that I refer to my parents more as 'those two' than 'Mom and Dad', which I suppose is mildly interesting.)

Of course, Allie sees no problem with them. She wouldn't. She can't see the problems in anyone; she has so much... I don't know. Faith? Faith in everyone. Something like that. I guess it's just one of those skills one has as a child and loses as they grow older.

But still, I couldn't tell her any of that. With any luck she'll actually grow up thinking her parents cared about her at all. Better than I got, anyway. Who marries someone with a job that eats up just as many hours as yours, have both of you be promoted to jobs which eat up even more time, and _then _take in the possibility of children?

I couldn't leave it now, obviously. I couldn't leave Alenine. I just wish those two would have just taken a moment to think.


	3. Terrible things

_New chapter is go! ...Finally._

_- Gira_

* * *

><p>Our apartment building is fairly close to the site of this year's Reaping. Granted, the housing district is strategically placed to be as claustrophobically close to the rest of the District as it can possibly be. But it still means that less time is spent walking silently alongside my family. It's almost a relief when I mumble farewells to my parents, give Alenine a comparatively warm-and-fuzzy smile, and head off to my designated area.<p>

I am now standing with the other fifteen-year-olds of District Three. Evidently, the population is so large this year that anyone not liable to be a Tribute has been relocated to the surrounding area, where I can see that television screens are set up to allow them to observe from the comfort of their very own side alley. Shaking my head slightly, I sigh and fiddle somewhat vacantly with my watch as people slowly trickle in. No one expects anything interesting out of this, just more people waiting around for someone to go up there and die.

There's quite a bit of mumbling between the possible Tributes; it is hushed, for the simple reason that this is a _Reaping _we're all attending, but the murmur is definitely there. And growing louder, if I'm not mistaken. I look up; there is now a man dressed in what appears to be a sparkling overcoat walking on to the stage, with an almost comically large top hat and purple hair that's longer and definitely more effeminate than my own. When he turns to the crowd, I recognize him – as I expected, this is Vladimir Trophstar, our resident Capitol attendant for the _honorable_ and _revolutionary_ Hunger Games Reaping Day.

...Of course, they don't actually use the word 'revolutionary'. After the Dark Days, all Capitol officials carefully sidestep anything that even moderately suggests a revolution of any kind.

Vladimir is surprisingly controlled, compared to what I've seen of the other Capitol assistants who have come flying in from years and Districts past. He doesn't seem to waste words. Instead, he goes almost directly into a recital of the Treaty of Treason, a document describing the sins of our ancestors and which has been embedded into our brains for years. Around him, a migraine-inducing array of colors is slapped onto the otherwise grayscale walls of the nearby buildings, in the form of distracting banners. Almost all of them are commemorating either the current Hunger Games (according to a particularly vivid purple one to my left, it's the fortieth) or the up-and-coming political figure of the day, the newly elected President Coriolanus Snow.

"These next few days," he concludes, "will be a time both for repentance and celebration as we move on into a bright future, as the united nation of Panem."

...Well, he's making a valiant effort. I give him that.

He continues to talk a bit longer about the importance of sticking together as a united nation under the doubtless 'strain' that will come from growing in to a new president (the last one has been here for years, and many people were amazed that he didn't keel over before he did). After a bit more filibusters in that same vein, he finally got to the part which most of us wanted to see (read: get over with).

"And now we will pull the Tributes!"

There is a round of polite clapping, though it was nowhere near the hearty applause that had come from District Four a short while ago. If people in the District didn't pretend that they enjoyed this, well... long story short, _very bad things_ would happen to the District with a suspiciously foggy cover story from the Capitol.

The infamous Reaping Ball is pushed to the stage by a single Peacekeeper. (I, of course, had no clue how heavy it was, but considering that the thing looked like it would overflow when Vladimir opened it, I figured that had to be a merit on the Peacekeeper's part.) There is a similarly low amount of propaganda and prancing this time, and instead Vladimir reaches swiftly for the Reaping Ball. Unfortunately, it didn't explode in a torrent of paper, and indeed only a few slipped out. The audience perked up.

They die down again when Vladimir retrieves the slips, chuckles nervously, and put them back in. (And there we thought that someone would be saved from the Reaping. Oh, we silly, stupid civilians...) He then reaches in to the Reaping Ball and comes up with a single slip of paper.

"Ether Sintakks! Do we have an Ether Sintakks in the audience?"

Oh, the hilarity of the Capitol. There is a small amount of nervous chuckling from those who felt obliged, so as not to invoke any amount of wrath. (Not that it would help.) However, it soon became obvious from the stirring in the fourteen-year-old sector that the girl was from there... and indeed, a child appears from the din and floats wispily up to the stage. She wasn't crying – but I soon realize that it was because she was more shellshocked than anything else.

Vladimir did at least make an attempt to cheer her up and rally the crowd at the same time. But even just putting his arm around her shoulder makes the girl shiver in absolute terror, and the crowd remains silent this time. They also remain silent as the females' Reaping Ball is taken away, and the males' is dragged in. Of course, this Reaping Ball looks exactly like the other one, and it gets the same reaction: we're watching, but with dead stares on our faces.

Of course, there's always the possibility that the male Reaping Ball will carry my name in it. But it could carry the name of any other boy in this entire District. That's the danger we all face every year, I suppose.

Vladimir reaches in to the Reaping Ball and mercifully makes it quick and simple – once again, he doesn't flounce around like some other hosts I could mention, who tried to 'spice' their performances with explosions or fetish wear (I kid you not; this is the Capitol we're talking about, remember?). Instead, he simply pulls out a slip of paper, turns to face the audience, and reads out the name of District Three's second damned one.

"Beetee Farwyre."

Oh... um...

_Oh. _

The next thing I know, I'm being pushed through the crowd, the daunting white cloaks of Peacekeepers hovering behind me. I can't even respond at all; walking is a struggle. But fortunately these Peacekeepers know that I'm just another pig to the slaughter and they try not to kill me before I get in the arena; eventually, their guns prod me up to stage, and I look over the crowd. There is no attempt to hide the pathetic looking horror on my face right now. I'm sure everyone else is laughing, and I fight a losing battle to keep my face from flushing.

Actually...

No. No, they're not laughing.

They're not doing anything at all.

Every single person in District Three is staring directly at me, knowing I am going to die, and they don't move a muscle. I'm standing here on a pedestal, paralyzed by... some nameless flood of emotion, and I'm looking over at the entire District. There's no reaction whatsoever, past maybe the very short clapping of people who don't want to get shot at later.

It's only when you're about to die at their hands that you realize the truth, the truth that you've probably subscribed to for almost every year of your life. Because, with certain death at hand...

No one cares.

I am pulled away into the Justice Building; it's all I can do to keep standing, much less try to escape. I follow without complaint, painfully aware of the dead expression that must be sitting on my face, with no resistance whatsoever. The same expression, I realize too late, that I've seen on the faces of every Tribute who's ever stood in my place _ever_, even that girl... what was her name? I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway. I saw the same thing on her face, and that's how I know what I look like.

All of them realized the same thing: _no one cares. _And when they tried to go back, tell the others, warn them? Once again: _no one cares._ And now there's one more person who's having this terrible epiphany, and no one can remember his name. Wonder why? Oh yes, that's right: _no one cares._

xxxx

By the time I wake up again, it is in a bed surprisingly more comfortable than my own, but plagued by the occasional bump. I can hear, vaguely, the rumbling of something beneath me... am I on a train? When was the last time I was on a train? It takes a while for reality to set in, for me to remember _why_ I'm in this comfortable bed on this rare commodity of transportation. And once I realize what that is, I emit a small and pathetic-sounding groan and attempt to submerge my head completely within my pillow.

Unfortunately, this doesn't work, and I am further interrupted by someone walking in the room right then. I don't move to try and identify them, and they say nothing at all; but a few seconds later, the door closes again, and I appear to be alone with my quickly-deteriorating thoughts. I pull the covers farther over me, still under the delusion that this bed can somehow erase everything that has happened to me in this insane new world.

It doesn't.

Eventually I figure that the lack of people coming in to whine at me is a bad thing, and I groggily get up. Whatever clothes I had been wearing before have been replaced by a white shirt and what appear to be sweatpants. Slowly, I look around at the multicolored globs of nondescriptiveness that is my environment, searching for a blackish bit that could possibly be my glasses. Fortunately, I soon find them... and realize that they are not my glasses.

But I can still see out of them... actually, even better than I could before. Why is that? Whatever happened to make the old pair obsolete? Those were perfectly good... I only bought them seven or eight years ago...

I wonder if they were able to make me take an eye exam while I was asleep. _Or knocked out, _I realize suddenly. Was that what happened? Did I faint somewhere along the line? To be perfectly honest, I wouldn't put something like that past myself, though that still doesn't mean that I'm not embarrassed about it. Everyone is already giving me flak for seeming too much like a girl; _fainting_ when things get too stressful is not going to help my case. And it's not going to help my 'sponsors' either, I remember – though, it's not like I'm actually going to get any.

The only thing I can do is hope that I did it in a non-filmed location (fat chance) and go out to explore the rest of the train.

I slowly open the door, wincing as the creaking isn't quite swallowed by the clamor of the train car's wheels. But no one comes springing out to yell at me, so I carefully step out, looking around. I'm standing near the middle of a car with doors running down a narrow hallway on both sides; these doors run the length of the train, at regular intervals. This must be some kind of 'home room' car. Everything is either red or brown; the natural colors are a little concerning to someone accustomed to the nasty-looking blues and grays of District Three.

Unwilling to let another pointless thing stop me, I walk down to one end of the car; before I can get there, however, the door opens and I am faced with a girl.

She doesn't look much older than I do, but her hair is brown and cut short, and she stares at me with slightly dazed eyes. Her expression changes foggily and after several seconds of delay, but when she sees me, she disappears again. I am reminded of the silent person who entered my room earlier; this girl didn't say a word, either. Thoughtfully, I note this for later.

Figuring that any sign of life on this train was a good thing, I followed the brown-haired girl where she had left through the door, and after a brief hop from one car to another (which I admit kind of gave me a spook) I found myself in a similarly-lit car, this time with a few tables scattered around. Everything is still very narrow, even though it's highly decorated; I have to wonder just how difficult it is to design cars for such a narrow space, so that people can reasonably use it but still be able to walk on through.

"Excuse me," I call out to the girl, who is opening the door to the next car. She turns around, startled, but before I can do anything else, she puts out a hand and disappears again. I figure this is a sign for me to stop, so now that I have a command, I actually bother to follow it. A chair is pulled out from its position and I sit down, drumming my fingers slightly on the table. Wherever that girl went, I hope she didn't just leave me here...

Though as it turns out, she didn't. When the door opened again it wasn't the quiet girl, but Vladimir. Go figure.

"Feeling better?" he asks immediately. Though his voice sounded calm, collected, and probably chick-magnet material up on stage, right now there's none of that – I know I said he didn't have anything excess, but now I realize that it was just a subtle form of flashiness. In his voice now is nothing but concern for my well being.

What a joke.

"I... think so," I mumble, not really feeling up to delivering this particular piece of my mind. "Um... where are we?"

Vladimir glanced out the window and thought for a moment. "Somewhere near District One, I think. We should be nearing the Capitol soon, so get yourself ready. Do whatever you have to do." He paused. "Do you need me to show you back to your room?"

I'm about to inform him that this entire train is practically one long hallway and it's very hard to lose your way in such a linear area, but once again, I don't really feel like it, so all I do is nod and float after him as he leads our little procession back through the few cars I left. Once I get there, he shuts the door on me, leaving him and the brown-haired girl off to their own devices until we get to the Capitol.

Devices...

_No!_

It's only just now that I realize something. I've left the music box. The music box... wasn't that so important? It was! I was supposed to finish it last night, after the Reaping had ended. I decided there that the faint or whatever I did must have seriously tampered with my internal clock – even more than it already was – because that felt like much more than a day ago. It felt... very far away.

Probably, I finally figure, because back then, I had some delusion that I was safe from the Reaping Ball. Just like everyone else in that District.

Even though I know by now that I can't afford to waste time thinking about impossible things like the music box, there really isn't anything else I'd like to think about instead – particularly what's going to happen once we get into the Capitol. I've watched the mandatory parts of the Games enough times to know that eventually, I'm going to be put in some ridiculous outfit and sent around on a chariot with... er, that girl. (I still can't remember her name.) Then, interviews. Then, I die.

I decide to go back to worrying about the music box.

It doesn't matter to me if Alenine finds it; more power to her if she does. She'll recognize it, and she'll get that I made it for her, right? Of course, there's always the possibility that one of my parents will find it and throw it out with the other contents of my room, but knowing them they'll just close the door and tell Alenine that it is a _bad, bad room _and that she should never go inside. Whether she would actually listen to them... I don't know. She does some funny things sometimes.

Once again, I'm interrupted from my thoughts by a knock on the door, and then silence. After a beat, I realize that I'm expected to actually respond to this. "...Oh! Uh, come in."

Vladimir's tall figure materializes in the doorway, and I notice for the first time that he is holding a clipboard, which he is scrawling furiously on. But a second later his attention is on me. "Thinking you can go _au naturel_?" He chuckles. "Oh, yes, District Three... wouldn't expect you to do otherwise. Silly me. Well, come along, Mr. Farwyre."

I follow him out and down the train once again; we are joined later by the brown-haired girl and the female Tribute. And all I'm thinking is, _Mr. Farwyre?_


End file.
